The voice on the breeze
by Shannanigans
Summary: Sam is back, but broken. Dean does his best to hold him together, that is - until Dean breaks.


**I tend to write things quickly and put them up before I get the chance to change my mind. Anyway, this is set after the season 5 finale. I hope you like it! Reviews are welcome, but I bruise easily… Thanks! ~Shannon **

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He sat by an open window, letting the air rush past his face. It was nice. He heard the voice again. It was nice too. He felt someone grasp his chin, trying to get him to look up. He couldn't. He couldn't do anything. His eyes were open but he didn't see. He knows that someone leads him from room to room, always placing him in his favorite spot – where the breeze calls his name. He can almost hear it now. He feels closer and closer every day. His name is spoken on the gentle wind; he can almost hear it. He wonders when the gusts will reveal his name… will he know it? Each day blends into the next. A kind soul feeds him, cares for him and tucks him into a comfortable bed each night. Every morning that person leads him to the breeze. Usually right before sleep claims him, the kind voice says the same thing each night.

"It's okay. I'm here. I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you."

He falls asleep to a hand running through his hair. Most words rush meaninglessly through his head; except for these words. They are always the same, always spoken by the same person. It takes a long time for him to comprehend the meaning. He realizes that they are spoken by the kind soul; he also realizes that this person means something to him. If only he could respond… if only he could reach out.

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I found him outside Lisa's house. I thought I was crazy, but it was him. It was Sam. It was Sam's body anyway. I'm honestly not sure if Sammy is still in there, but I have to believe. Sam was standing under the burnt-out street light. I ran to him and grabbed him in a hug, not even really caring if I was in danger. It turns out that it was Sam, just not the Sam I remember. I couldn't ask Lisa and Ben to deal with that. He's my catatonic brother, not theirs. I was able to get Sam into the Impala and settled for the long ride to Bobby's. I need some backup to deal with this. I need… someone I trust, someone like a dad. Bobby loves both of us, even though he'd never admit it. That was two months ago. Each day I take care of Sam. He seems to like sitting by the open window. He won't look _at_ me, he looks _through_ me. He can't feed himself or dress himself. I take care of everything. That's what brothers do. Well, that's what Winchester brothers do, anyway. That's what Sammy would do for me. Believe me; I take no joy from spoon-feeding my Stanford-educated brother and wiping his chin. I do, however, love the look on his face when he sits by the window, closes his eyes and breathes deeply from the air rushing past his face. It reminds me of Sammy in the passenger seat of the Impala – where he belongs. He used to do that sometimes. On a clear day I would look over and occasionally find Sam staring out the window, taking it all in. I didn't make fun of him because it's something he's always done. It's just… Sam. I tuck my little, giant of a brother into bed each night. Before I leave I remind him that I am there for him, that I will never leave. It is a promise I intend on keeping.

Bobby looks at us with sad eyes. I get it, I do. I just don't need to see pity. I take a job at a local diner, washing dishes. Bobby tells me not to worry about money, but it makes me feel better. I know he is there with Sam, and in a small way, I can contribute to everything Bobby is doing for us. Every Tuesday night I bring home a blueberry pie. It was Sam's favorite, really the only time he'd actually join me for pie. I warm the pie and feed Sam small bites. Sometimes, I swear I can hear him humming while eating – not musical humming, more like 'this is yummy' humming. Bobby tells me I'm crazy. On Sundays I take Sam for a ride in the Impala. I buckle him in and roll down his window. I crank the music and just drive, sometimes for hours. I try not to go too far so as not to worry Bobby, but we have returned in the wee hours of the morning on occasion.

I don't sleep much. I have to make sure Sammy is okay. Once I know that, I grab a few hours here and there. Bobby yells at me, but I know he understands. Yesterday at work, I had to run out back, in the middle of the lunch rush, just to puke my guts up. Luckily I am off work today. I still feel like crap. I'm sweating like a pig, I keep puking and my stomach hurts. It doesn't stop me from taking care of Sam, though. I have my priorities. I feed him his breakfast, toast with blackberry jelly, and guide him to his seat by the window. Bobby is out of town so I make myself comfortable (as comfortable as one can be with a grating pain in your gut) on his couch. When I wake up it's dark outside. Cursing myself for missing Sam's lunch and dinner, I drag myself to the kitchen. There must be something in my eyes because everything is blurry. I wipe the sweat from my brow and make a quick dinner for Sam out of leftover chicken and rice. I want nothing to do with food. God, is it hot in here? I feed a hungry Sam and guide him to his bed. My head is so fuzzy, I forget our nightly ritual. It's the first time I haven't said the words to Sam. As I step into the hall, a blinding pain assaults me. I call for Sam, but know that he cannot hear me. I don't even feel the cold, hardwood floor as I fall.

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I must've fallen asleep again. I really hope that this time I remembered to feed Sam. I really want to go back to sleep, but I need to take care of my brother. Opening my eyes, I expect to see my room at Bobby's. Instead I am greeted with white walls, beeping machines, and Bobby at my bedside. Jumping up (boy was that a mistake!), the first word out of my mouth is "Sam!" Bobby yells at me to calm down. He assures me that Sam is fine and so am I. Once I can breathe normally again, Bobby explains that my appendix chose to burst while I was home alone with Sam. I had surgery. It was rough-going, but I'm going to be fine. After I tell Bobby how lucky I am that he found me, he gets really quiet. I nudge his elbow with my IV-laden hand. He didn't find me, he tells me. I don't remember calling an ambulance, but maybe I was better off than I recall. Bobby tells me to hang on; he steps out into the hall. He leads a shuffling Sam into my room and sits him by my bedside. Sam stares out the hospital window; I can tell he is hoping for a breeze. I touch the top of his hand and tell him that there won't be a wind coming from that window and I smile at Bobby for bringing the one person who can make me feel better, no matter what.

Bobby stands beside Sam and grabs me by the chin. He explains that he was driving up from Omaha when his cell phone rang. He answered, assuming it was me; it was – after all, my cell phone. Instead he only heard silence, then humming. Not getting an answer was worrying him half to death, so he floored it home. Less than an hour later, he found me on the hallway floor. Sam was sitting next to me running his hand through my hair and whispering over and over again…

"It's okay. I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you."

Stunned, I look over to my baby brother. He's still staring out the window. I look to Bobby for confirmation. "Sammy spoke?" Tears run down my face as I look from Bobby to Sam.

This time Sam is looking at me. Really looking at me. It only lasts a moment, but in that moment, I know… it's okay. He's here. He's not gonna leave me. My brother is coming back to me. I grab Sam's hand between mine, squeezing weakly.

"Welcome home Sammy".


End file.
